Danger Zone (A Very Short Story)
Mar 22, 2017 22:02:07 GMT -6
admin, kaijafon, and 10 more like this
Post by brucearmstrong65 on Mar 22, 2017 22:02:07 GMT -6
Here's a very short story (as it says in the subject) that I've fiddled around with while I put off the major rewrite that's coming on Son of Welderman (and likely Welderman, as well, given how the November election turned out). Thoughts and opinions are welcome.
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Danger Zone. (A Very Short Story)
10:05 PM Pacific Time
Studios of KPAH 1680 AM, Pahrump, NV
“Well, hello everyone, listening to KPAH in our little corner of the southwest. I am your host, Nick Danger, and you’re riding on the highway to the Danger Zone.” Nick pressed a button on his main workscreen, and a clip of Kenny Loggins’ “Danger Zone” blasts over the airwaves, which he dials down after a few seconds. While “Danger Zone” is playing, Nick pauses to get a sip of coffee, trying to get rid of the dryness in his mouth, only some of which was caused by talking.
“Sorry about slurping coffee on the air folks, but since this will probably be our last time together on the highway through the Danger Zone, I think we can go a little easy on the normal rules. You know the number to call if you want to talk – 555-ZONE, that’s 555-9663 for those of you who can’t spell on your phone, heh heh – and there’s really only one thing to talk about tonight so we can dispense with the regular pre-game topical warmup.
“You heard the latest on the top-of-the-hour news from Associated Press: Earlier today, U.S. Navy aircraft carried out several air attacks on China’s artificial islands-cum-bases in the South China Sea. Chinese forces responded with a massive barrage of anti-ship missiles, sinking the aircraft carrier USS Ronald Reagan and severely damaging several smaller ships of the Reagan carrier group.” After another sip of coffee, tossing the empty cup in the wastebasket, Nick continued.
“Reports have been coming in via AP and you Zoneheads listening on the Internet of large-scale activity at Air Force and Naval bases around the country – ships leaving their ports at high speed with only partial crews, SAC bombers and tankers getting airborne with Minimum Interval Take-Off procedures. That can only mean one thing, friends.” Nick pushed a button on his main workscreen and a medley of clips played – Dr. Strangelove’s Major Kong saying “nuclear combat, toe-to-toe with the Russkies”, Col. Jack D. Ripper talking about preserving our “precious bodily fluids,” Tom Lehrer’s song “We Will All Go Together When We Go,” the countdown from the 1964 LBJ “Daisy” ad, and underneath these, the rise-and-fall of an air-raid siren.
“So, as I said earlier, we’re gonna relax the rules a bit and do things just a little bit differently tonight,” Nick said as the air-raid siren sound effect faded out. “No commercials, for a start – if you haven’t bought your beans, bullets and bullion yet from our fine advertisers, I don’t think even Super-Fast Double-Secret-Probation shipping is going to beat the Russian and Chinese Air Forces to your front door.
“We also won’t be going off the air at midnight. I’ll be here, well, as long as you are out there listening. The streaming feed will stay up until our friends from the Far East come knocking. The only thing that will interrupt us is EMP or EAS, and they both mean the same time: It’ll be time, as the Dubliners sang, to ‘Take a spade into the garden and dig like merry hell, sir.’”
“I’m going to take a short break to tap the kidneys and make room for some more coffee, so I’ll switch over to the AP’s live radio feed and be back shortly, I hope.”
Nick pushed a couple buttons on his workscreen, made sure the news feed was still broadcasting, yanked off his headphones and quickly stepped across the hall to the men’s room. He came back, poured another cup of coffee, listened to the AP feed, and then replaced the AP signal with his own voice.
“Okay friends, I’m back, the kidneys are functioning well, thank you very much, for as long as I’ll be needing them, so let’s get you on the air. Our first caller is good old Zonie Jack from Omaha. Jack, welcome back to the Danger Zone. What’s up?”
“Nick, greetings and, if our call gets interrupted by you-know-who, farewell.”
“That’s it, Jack,” Nick said with a laugh, “look on the bright side. I suspect there’s a lot going on in your neck of the woods at Offutt. Anything you’d like to share?”
“Noisy as hell is what it is, Nick. Aircraft have been taking off all afternoon and evening. Those runways have been busier than a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest … that’s okay to say, right, Nick?”
Nick chuckled. “No worries, Jack. I suspect we’re in no danger of getting an FCC ticket tonight for indecency, but let’s not get stupid, folks, just in case our chestnuts get pulled out of the fire. So a lot of activity at Offutt, Jack?”
“Absolutely, Nick,” Jack continued. “A couple hours ago, a retired Air Force buddy of mine said he couldn’t get on base to use the commissary, and while he was at the front gate, he saw several eighteen-wheelers haul ass out of the base. He was sure they were the emergency teams leaving Offutt to set up Alternate Reconstitution Bases at other airfields and even stretches of interstate highways once the regular bases are destroyed.”
Nick whistled softly. “I don’t know if that’s good to know or not, Jack. I doubt they’re holding a readiness exercise just now, so looks like they’re ready to be moving and grooving. You might want to think about joining them, Jack.”
A scornful snort came from Nick’s headphones. “Aw hell, Nick, why bother? If the fecal matter hits the rotary device, everything within a hundred miles of Omaha will be extremely crispy and I’ll be floating in the upper atmosphere. The wife’s asleep upstairs already, and it’s probably more merciful if I let her sleep. I’m down in the den, manning the ham radio, keeping an eye on CNN and listening to you. I think Martha and the Vandellas had it just right, my friend – nowhere to run to, baby, nowhere to hide.”
“I agree, Jack, which is why I’m still here instead of looking for a hole in the ground. The wife & daughter are in southern Mexico, visiting her family, so I’m flying solo. Well, ham your radio, Jack, and call back if you hear anything else. Thanks for being a great Zonie, Jack, and we’ll meet again someday.
“Friends, you might be interested in an e-mail I just got from a friend near Cheyenne Mountain. And when I say near, I mean NEAR. Believe it or not, he lives in a sub-division right next to Cheyenne Mountain. Matter of fact, his backyard fence is right up against the outer perimeter fence for Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Station, aka The Mountain. Anyway, he says they’ve had a boat load of choppers (talk about a mixed metaphor!) in and out all day, along with heavy security all around the mountain. Neither he nor Zonie Jack in Omaha have to worry about stocking their fallout shelter, because Omaha and Cheyenne Mountain are primo targets. It’ll all be over in a flash for them, and for a lot of other people too.”
Nick’s eyes were drawn to red numbers which had just begun flashing in the upper left-hand corner of his main workscreen.
“Fellow Zonies, I think this is it. Something's happening. Well, a lot of things are happening, but I think this is The Thing. I’m getting a 30-second countdown indicating an incoming message for the Emergency Alert System.” Nick pushed a button and brought up Johnny Cash’s version of “We’ll Meet Again,” the song played at the end of Dr. Strangelove. “So if we don’t get to talk again in this world, I'll be waiting for you in the next. it’s been an honor and a privilege to spend so many nights with you.”
Nick stood up, lit up a cigarette, and walked outside. He sat down on the front steps of the double-wide housing his station and turned on an old AM transistor radio, listening to his own station. Suddenly, Johnny Cash was replaced by a recorded announcement in Nick’s own voice:
This is an Emergency Action Notification. All broadcast stations and cable systems shall transmit this Emergency Action Notification Message. This station interrupted its regular programming at the request of the White House to participate in the Emergency Alert System.
During this emergency, most stations will remain on the air providing news and information to the public in assigned areas. This is station KPAH, 660 AM. We will continue to serve the Pahrump and southern Nevada area. If you are not in this Local Area, you should tune to stations providing news and information for your Local Area. You are listening to the Emergency Alert System serving the Pahrump and southern Nevada area.
Do not use your telephone. The telephone lines should be kept open for emergency use.
The recorded message replayed itself and would continue to do so until either Nick or the national system interrupted it. The third time through, Nick’s pre-recorded voice was replaced by a live announcer.
Ladies and gentlemen, the next voice you hear will be that of the President of the United States.
Before the President could begin speaking, the signal was interrupted, the power went out, and there was a bright flash from the east. Nick, facing the other direction, dove back into the open doorway of the doublewide. Several more flashes followed – most to the southwest, it seemed to Nick, but one was to the north and significantly closer than what he presumed was the Vegas blast.
“Whoever hit us must’ve taken out Indian Springs Air Force Base as well as Vegas and Southern California,” Nick thought to himself, thankful that at least he hadn’t lost his vision or been set afire by either the Vegas or the Indian Springs blasts. He felt the ground-transmitted shock waves from Indian Springs and then from Vegas.
Nick did a quick check of the station and everything seemed to be in order, aside from the fact that they had no power, they weren’t on the air, and there were mushroom clouds visible in at least three different directions.
Nick was wondering why the emergency generator hadn’t started up so he could get his station back on the air, at least on reduced power for a short time, when a searing pain shot through his chest and down his left arm. He stumbled into his now-dark, now-quiet studio and half-collapsed into his chair. He tried to catch his breath and gather his now thoroughly-scrambled wits about him. After a few minutes, the pain subsided (well, a bit, anyway) and Nick’s thinking (which was limited to the idea of “Crap, that hurts”) began to clear a bit.
“Well, if that doesn’t just beat all,” Nick said out loud, and, unbelievably, chuckled. “I survive round one of the end of the world as we know it, only to have a friggin’ heart attack”
Nick slowly, tentatively reached for the phone and held the handset to his ear briefly before tossing it down on the desk. He loosened his shirt and leaned back. The pain was almost completely gone and his breathing felt less labored.
“So, what now?” Nick said out loud to himself. “The power’s out, the phones are out, the emergency generator’s out, the wife’s out, and I suspect my luck has just run out.” He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and brought out a mostly-full bottle of Jack Daniels. He fished the empty Styrofoam coffee cup out of the wastebasket, poured a generous three fingers into it, and eased back in his chair, putting his feet up on the desktop.
Nick was in the same position several hours later, when the first fallout from southern California began to drift out of the skies over Pahrump. This was of no concern to Nick, since a second, massive heart attack had taken his life while he was asleep (passed out, actually) – a empty bottle on the desk, an empty Styrofoam cup in one hand, and a picture of his wife and infant daughter in the other.
---
Danger Zone. (A Very Short Story)
10:05 PM Pacific Time
Studios of KPAH 1680 AM, Pahrump, NV
“Well, hello everyone, listening to KPAH in our little corner of the southwest. I am your host, Nick Danger, and you’re riding on the highway to the Danger Zone.” Nick pressed a button on his main workscreen, and a clip of Kenny Loggins’ “Danger Zone” blasts over the airwaves, which he dials down after a few seconds. While “Danger Zone” is playing, Nick pauses to get a sip of coffee, trying to get rid of the dryness in his mouth, only some of which was caused by talking.
“Sorry about slurping coffee on the air folks, but since this will probably be our last time together on the highway through the Danger Zone, I think we can go a little easy on the normal rules. You know the number to call if you want to talk – 555-ZONE, that’s 555-9663 for those of you who can’t spell on your phone, heh heh – and there’s really only one thing to talk about tonight so we can dispense with the regular pre-game topical warmup.
“You heard the latest on the top-of-the-hour news from Associated Press: Earlier today, U.S. Navy aircraft carried out several air attacks on China’s artificial islands-cum-bases in the South China Sea. Chinese forces responded with a massive barrage of anti-ship missiles, sinking the aircraft carrier USS Ronald Reagan and severely damaging several smaller ships of the Reagan carrier group.” After another sip of coffee, tossing the empty cup in the wastebasket, Nick continued.
“Reports have been coming in via AP and you Zoneheads listening on the Internet of large-scale activity at Air Force and Naval bases around the country – ships leaving their ports at high speed with only partial crews, SAC bombers and tankers getting airborne with Minimum Interval Take-Off procedures. That can only mean one thing, friends.” Nick pushed a button on his main workscreen and a medley of clips played – Dr. Strangelove’s Major Kong saying “nuclear combat, toe-to-toe with the Russkies”, Col. Jack D. Ripper talking about preserving our “precious bodily fluids,” Tom Lehrer’s song “We Will All Go Together When We Go,” the countdown from the 1964 LBJ “Daisy” ad, and underneath these, the rise-and-fall of an air-raid siren.
“So, as I said earlier, we’re gonna relax the rules a bit and do things just a little bit differently tonight,” Nick said as the air-raid siren sound effect faded out. “No commercials, for a start – if you haven’t bought your beans, bullets and bullion yet from our fine advertisers, I don’t think even Super-Fast Double-Secret-Probation shipping is going to beat the Russian and Chinese Air Forces to your front door.
“We also won’t be going off the air at midnight. I’ll be here, well, as long as you are out there listening. The streaming feed will stay up until our friends from the Far East come knocking. The only thing that will interrupt us is EMP or EAS, and they both mean the same time: It’ll be time, as the Dubliners sang, to ‘Take a spade into the garden and dig like merry hell, sir.’”
“I’m going to take a short break to tap the kidneys and make room for some more coffee, so I’ll switch over to the AP’s live radio feed and be back shortly, I hope.”
Nick pushed a couple buttons on his workscreen, made sure the news feed was still broadcasting, yanked off his headphones and quickly stepped across the hall to the men’s room. He came back, poured another cup of coffee, listened to the AP feed, and then replaced the AP signal with his own voice.
“Okay friends, I’m back, the kidneys are functioning well, thank you very much, for as long as I’ll be needing them, so let’s get you on the air. Our first caller is good old Zonie Jack from Omaha. Jack, welcome back to the Danger Zone. What’s up?”
“Nick, greetings and, if our call gets interrupted by you-know-who, farewell.”
“That’s it, Jack,” Nick said with a laugh, “look on the bright side. I suspect there’s a lot going on in your neck of the woods at Offutt. Anything you’d like to share?”
“Noisy as hell is what it is, Nick. Aircraft have been taking off all afternoon and evening. Those runways have been busier than a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest … that’s okay to say, right, Nick?”
Nick chuckled. “No worries, Jack. I suspect we’re in no danger of getting an FCC ticket tonight for indecency, but let’s not get stupid, folks, just in case our chestnuts get pulled out of the fire. So a lot of activity at Offutt, Jack?”
“Absolutely, Nick,” Jack continued. “A couple hours ago, a retired Air Force buddy of mine said he couldn’t get on base to use the commissary, and while he was at the front gate, he saw several eighteen-wheelers haul ass out of the base. He was sure they were the emergency teams leaving Offutt to set up Alternate Reconstitution Bases at other airfields and even stretches of interstate highways once the regular bases are destroyed.”
Nick whistled softly. “I don’t know if that’s good to know or not, Jack. I doubt they’re holding a readiness exercise just now, so looks like they’re ready to be moving and grooving. You might want to think about joining them, Jack.”
A scornful snort came from Nick’s headphones. “Aw hell, Nick, why bother? If the fecal matter hits the rotary device, everything within a hundred miles of Omaha will be extremely crispy and I’ll be floating in the upper atmosphere. The wife’s asleep upstairs already, and it’s probably more merciful if I let her sleep. I’m down in the den, manning the ham radio, keeping an eye on CNN and listening to you. I think Martha and the Vandellas had it just right, my friend – nowhere to run to, baby, nowhere to hide.”
“I agree, Jack, which is why I’m still here instead of looking for a hole in the ground. The wife & daughter are in southern Mexico, visiting her family, so I’m flying solo. Well, ham your radio, Jack, and call back if you hear anything else. Thanks for being a great Zonie, Jack, and we’ll meet again someday.
“Friends, you might be interested in an e-mail I just got from a friend near Cheyenne Mountain. And when I say near, I mean NEAR. Believe it or not, he lives in a sub-division right next to Cheyenne Mountain. Matter of fact, his backyard fence is right up against the outer perimeter fence for Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Station, aka The Mountain. Anyway, he says they’ve had a boat load of choppers (talk about a mixed metaphor!) in and out all day, along with heavy security all around the mountain. Neither he nor Zonie Jack in Omaha have to worry about stocking their fallout shelter, because Omaha and Cheyenne Mountain are primo targets. It’ll all be over in a flash for them, and for a lot of other people too.”
Nick’s eyes were drawn to red numbers which had just begun flashing in the upper left-hand corner of his main workscreen.
“Fellow Zonies, I think this is it. Something's happening. Well, a lot of things are happening, but I think this is The Thing. I’m getting a 30-second countdown indicating an incoming message for the Emergency Alert System.” Nick pushed a button and brought up Johnny Cash’s version of “We’ll Meet Again,” the song played at the end of Dr. Strangelove. “So if we don’t get to talk again in this world, I'll be waiting for you in the next. it’s been an honor and a privilege to spend so many nights with you.”
Nick stood up, lit up a cigarette, and walked outside. He sat down on the front steps of the double-wide housing his station and turned on an old AM transistor radio, listening to his own station. Suddenly, Johnny Cash was replaced by a recorded announcement in Nick’s own voice:
This is an Emergency Action Notification. All broadcast stations and cable systems shall transmit this Emergency Action Notification Message. This station interrupted its regular programming at the request of the White House to participate in the Emergency Alert System.
During this emergency, most stations will remain on the air providing news and information to the public in assigned areas. This is station KPAH, 660 AM. We will continue to serve the Pahrump and southern Nevada area. If you are not in this Local Area, you should tune to stations providing news and information for your Local Area. You are listening to the Emergency Alert System serving the Pahrump and southern Nevada area.
Do not use your telephone. The telephone lines should be kept open for emergency use.
The recorded message replayed itself and would continue to do so until either Nick or the national system interrupted it. The third time through, Nick’s pre-recorded voice was replaced by a live announcer.
Ladies and gentlemen, the next voice you hear will be that of the President of the United States.
Before the President could begin speaking, the signal was interrupted, the power went out, and there was a bright flash from the east. Nick, facing the other direction, dove back into the open doorway of the doublewide. Several more flashes followed – most to the southwest, it seemed to Nick, but one was to the north and significantly closer than what he presumed was the Vegas blast.
“Whoever hit us must’ve taken out Indian Springs Air Force Base as well as Vegas and Southern California,” Nick thought to himself, thankful that at least he hadn’t lost his vision or been set afire by either the Vegas or the Indian Springs blasts. He felt the ground-transmitted shock waves from Indian Springs and then from Vegas.
Nick did a quick check of the station and everything seemed to be in order, aside from the fact that they had no power, they weren’t on the air, and there were mushroom clouds visible in at least three different directions.
Nick was wondering why the emergency generator hadn’t started up so he could get his station back on the air, at least on reduced power for a short time, when a searing pain shot through his chest and down his left arm. He stumbled into his now-dark, now-quiet studio and half-collapsed into his chair. He tried to catch his breath and gather his now thoroughly-scrambled wits about him. After a few minutes, the pain subsided (well, a bit, anyway) and Nick’s thinking (which was limited to the idea of “Crap, that hurts”) began to clear a bit.
“Well, if that doesn’t just beat all,” Nick said out loud, and, unbelievably, chuckled. “I survive round one of the end of the world as we know it, only to have a friggin’ heart attack”
Nick slowly, tentatively reached for the phone and held the handset to his ear briefly before tossing it down on the desk. He loosened his shirt and leaned back. The pain was almost completely gone and his breathing felt less labored.
“So, what now?” Nick said out loud to himself. “The power’s out, the phones are out, the emergency generator’s out, the wife’s out, and I suspect my luck has just run out.” He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and brought out a mostly-full bottle of Jack Daniels. He fished the empty Styrofoam coffee cup out of the wastebasket, poured a generous three fingers into it, and eased back in his chair, putting his feet up on the desktop.
Nick was in the same position several hours later, when the first fallout from southern California began to drift out of the skies over Pahrump. This was of no concern to Nick, since a second, massive heart attack had taken his life while he was asleep (passed out, actually) – a empty bottle on the desk, an empty Styrofoam cup in one hand, and a picture of his wife and infant daughter in the other.
